Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee.
Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shall be.
Perish every fond ambition, all I’ve sought or hoped or known.
Yet how rich is my condition! God and Heaven are still mine own.

Let the world despise and leave me, they have left my Savior, too.
Human hearts and looks deceive me; Thou art not, like them, untrue.
And while Thou shalt smile upon me, God of wisdom, love and might,
Foes may hate and friends disown me, show Thy face and all is bright.

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure! Come, disaster, scorn and pain!
In Thy service, pain is pleasure; with Thy favor, loss is gain.
I have called Thee, “Abba, Father”; I have set my heart on Thee:
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather, all must work for good to me.

Man may trouble and distress me, ’twill but drive me to Thy breast.
Life with trials hard may press me; heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh, ’tis not in grief to harm me while Thy love is left to me;
Oh, ’twere not in joy to charm me, were that joy unmixed with Thee.

Take, my soul, thy full salvation; rise o’er sin, and fear, and care;
Joy to find in every station something still to do or bear:
Think what Spirit dwells within thee; what a Father’s smile is thine;
What a Savior died to win thee, child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?

Henry Francis Lyte was buried this date, 11/20/1847, Nice, France. Though orphaned he was able to attended Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland, specializing in English poetry. Lyte married Anne Maxwell, 1818, at Bath, daughter of William Maxwell a minister of Monaghan. (Their very happy marriage produced at least one child, a daughter.) From Trinity College he received his MA in 1820.

Lyte did not have a strong body and in later years suffered from asthma and consumption. His last pastorate (twenty-three years) was a poor parish, pastoring the fishermen and families in Lower Brixham, England. (It was here he penned “Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken.” Near the end of life (his health in worse condition) Lyte preached his last sermon and also wrote “Abide with Me, Fast Falls the Eventide.”

It was for his health sake that he had started to Italy but expired making it no farther than France. Lyte was born 6/1/1793, at Ed­nam, Scot­land.